


Doing You Right in Shawsville

by james



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Fluff, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a job in a small town in Georgia (the state), Clint accidentally marries Phil.  Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing You Right in Shawsville

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ruby for the beta! The story is set pre-movie, but background and canon are written with both the movie and the Hawkeye comics in mind. I don't know how much that matters.

Shawsville was seriously starting to become one of the most boring jobs Clint had ever had. S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to track down a domestic terrorist ring which the experts in intel thought was maybe just one guy with a computer and a shed full of weaponry. The trouble was that it was entirely possible the shed was full of enough munitions to destroy all of Georgia, part of Alabama, and a good chunk of the Carolinas no matter how many people were involved.

Nobody was completely sure, of course, so naturally Clint and Natasha got sent in to observe, attempt to make contact, and infiltrate whatever stronghold they could find.

After three weeks working the counter at the town's second smallest coffee joint, Clint suspected that Tasha was correct in claiming this job was punishment for blowing up an empty aircraft carrier, even though it had been the only way of ensuring the success of their mission. (Or possibly just the easiest and hey, blowing up an aircraft carrier.) Fury had been distinctly unamused as he'd pointed out the aircraft carrier didn't belong to them and now _somebody_ was going to have to pay for it.

Clint was going to keep an eye on his next paycheck to see if there were any large, mysterious deductions.

Strangely, for being stuck in a small town in Georgia, Natasha was enjoying herself. Clint suspected she was doing it on purpose just to annoy him. But then she got to wander around town, playing the part of a photographer trying to capture "America's Down Home Spirit." It let her talk to everyone in town about the town's past, its people, and ask the noisiest questions without triggering any suspicion. It also let her drive down to Atlanta once in a while to "meet with her editor."

Clint was stuck serving coffee and pastries and waiting for their primary suspect, Jerry Duncan, to come in and order his usual. The 3rd Street Coffee Shop was one of the only regular stops Duncan had when he could be bothered to leave his house in town, and as such it was the best way for them to make any sort of contact with him. So far Clint had been completely unable to strike up more of a conversation than "cream is on the table behind you" and "sorry, we're out of apple fritters." 

Other agents and tracking satellites were watching for Duncan to leave town and visit his alleged weapons cache but since S.H.I.E.L.D. had started watching, Duncan hadn't so much as stirred beyond the house he'd inherited from his parents except to go to the grocery store and the coffee shop. Trying to find a weapons cache in the woods on their own had proven fruitless thus far -- they'd turned up three working moonshine operations, but no secret cache of weapons.

Clint had to agree that as far as personality went, Jerry Duncan was cagey and paranoid enough to be stocking weapons nearby, but so far Clint was unable to prove it, or even figure out where it might actually be. Duncan spent most of his time at home, not answering his door or his phone even when the caller was a gorgeous red-headed woman whom all the neighbors had been chatting with and asserting just how pleasant and friendly she was. But Duncan either didn't care or was paranoid enough to not believe his neighbors and he refused any contact at all beyond ordering the same drink when he stopped in.

One of the few perks of Clint's job was the coffee. Clint gave himself a mental high-five at the joke, despite having thought the exact same thing every morning since he'd shown up in Shawsville, a war vet just looking for a quiet place to live. The owner of the 3rd Street Coffee Shop was an old army buddy of a guy who'd served with a woman who'd served with a guy Phil had served with. The man didn't know anything more than Clint needed a favor, and here he was serving coffee, keeping surveillance on a guy who liked two creams, no sugar, and any type of pastry with apples in it.

Clint got to drink all the coffee he wanted, and he was amusing himself by going through every variation of all the possible drinks he could make. His favorite so far was the raspberry lemon dark mocha with steamed soy milk and a sprinkling of candied ginger. Tasha had given him a look of horror when he'd made her one, but to keep her cover intact she'd been forced to accept it politely and take a taste.

Clint knew he was going to pay for that, but there was time yet and he'd be safe until the job was over. Maybe Duncan would blow something up and give them something to do and Tasha would even forget about it. 

Probably not. Clint smiled as Mrs. Gunter came in with her grand-daughter Sheryl shuffling along behind. Mrs. Gunter looked appalled about something, which wasn't surprising. She was always going on about social ills and horrible things kids today were doing, wearing, or listening to. Sheryl had the sullen, pre-teen frown of boredom on her face that she always seemed to wear -- except whenever Tasha was in the shop. Tasha thought her adorable, and always chatted with the girl when she had a chance while Sheryl stared at Tasha raptly, soaking up every word.

Clint began getting their drinks ready, giving them a nod as they went directly to a table. Mrs. Gunter sat down, plopping her giant handbag on her lap, and announced, "Well, that was the most disgusting display I have ever seen. It's one thing to know that sort of thing goes on in the _city."_ Her tone made it clear that no, in fact it was not all right that such things happened in Atlanta, but better there than in their own town. She looked around, saw that the only other customer was Old Man Freely, who had his nose in a newspaper and was too deaf to admit he could hear her just fine. Instead she looked directly at Clint who was trapped behind the counter making their drinks.

"I mean really," she said, raising her voice so Clint could be certain to hear. "It was simply disgusting. For two men to do _that sort of thing_ is sinful enough, but to do it out in the open! Where children can see!" She gestured at her grand-daughter, who was sinking down in her chair even more. Clint could see the girl's distress was genuine, and maybe more than just embarrassment at her grandmother's opinions. Mrs. Gunter kept on. "It's bad enough they're going to You Know Where for what they're doing. But to do it where just anyone can see! Someone needs to do something! Such a disgusting, horrible display." She shuddered and Clint didn't really have to wonder what she was talking about. 

He knew about Mark Cousins, whose father owned the newsstand next door. Mark was home from college for the week and he'd brought his boyfriend along. Mark's family were perfectly fine with it; they were regulars at the coffee shop and Mark's boyfriend had been introduced as such. But there had been a lot of talk around town, naturally enough, and it didn't surprise Clint to find Mrs. Gunter didn't approve.

What caught Clint's eye, however, was the way Sheryl was looking down at the table, hands held tightly together in her lap. She was tense and silent, doing a fair job of hiding the misery Clint could see clearly etched in her eyes and the lines of her mouth. Suddenly the way she stared at Tasha made a new kind of sense. 

Clint had no idea what to do about it, other than telling Mrs. Gunter off -- though he knew from experience that it wouldn't do much good. It would be better to somehow let Sheryl know it was all right; he made a note to have Tasha say something to her, perhaps. 

As he carried the ladies' drinks over, he saw Mrs. Gunter watching him. "Someone needs to do _something,_ " she said again. "They're right next door. _In public._ "

Clint opened his mouth -- he had no idea what he'd been about to say when he saw Phil walk in. Smoothly, he said, "I'm not sure what they're doing, but I can ask my husband to go take a look, see what he can do?" He looked up and smiled widely at Phil. "Sweetheart, you're here! How was the drive?" Clint hurried over, not really intending to do more than give Phil the chance to get some good blackmail material on him -- fair was fair.

For an instant, Coulson's expression didn't change, then he smiled wide and easily, relaxing into Clint's embrace and exchanging a quick, long-time married kiss on the lips. Phil slid his hand into Clint's and gave a squeeze. "The drive was fine," he said, and there was a startled sort of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Clint turned to ask Mrs. Gunter if she'd like Clint's husband to go speak to the men next door, when he saw that Jerry Duncan had come in the side door and was watching them. Clint forced himself not to take undue notice, but looked instead at Mrs. Gunter, who was gasping in shock and grabbing for her bag. Sheryl was staring at them, wide-eyed -- but something like hope on her face. She leapt to her feet as her grandmother said her name in a sharp, anxious tone.

As they left, drinks untouched on the table, Sheryl took a look over her shoulder at them. Clint smiled at her and gave her a short nod; briefly the girl smiled back.

The noise of a throat being cleared behind them made Clint turn around. Duncan was still watching, looking vastly amused. "I've been waiting for someone to do that to that old biddy for years. Congratulations; if I'd known she'd make that face I might have found a guy to kiss, myself."

"Uh, sorry," Clint stammered, trying to stay in character in front of the guy who might or might not be about to destroy large portions of the country. 

"Not a problem, man. I am kind of in a hurry though, if I can get my coffee?" He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet and Clint hurried around the counter to begin making his drink. It had been the same drink every time so Clint didn't bother asking, even though he knew he ought to be taking advantage of the fact Duncan was finally talking to him.

About the fact he thought Clint and Phil were married. God, Coulson was going to kill him. Tasha, too, if only because she hadn't been here to watch. Clint handed over the coffee and Duncan left a five on the counter, then left out the side door as he'd come in without another word, which was both good and bad -- because it meant now they had an opening and Clint would have to stick around to turn it into something more useful.

And Coulson-- Clint gave the man a sheepish grin. Coulson seemed to be suppressing a sigh, pulling out his phone and began typing. Clint knew he was arranging his cover story, complete with marriage certificate and photos of the happy couple over the years.

Tasha was going to _kill him_ for missing this.

~~~

Once Clint's shift was over they headed back to Clint's tiny apartment where Phil sat down at the kitchen table and, finally, gave Clint the Look he'd been waiting for.

"I'm not really sorry," Clint began, swallowing the reflexive 'sir' because he was still Clint Anderson, now married to a guy he probably didn't call 'sir'. "It was for Sheryl."

But Phil nodded. "I saw. I can't say I disagree with your sentiment, but your methods...."

"At least Duncan is talking to me now?" Clint tried, despite the fact he wasn't really happy about that fact. If Duncan had come in five minutes later Clint could have done his good deed and not be stuck married to Phil.

But Phil was nodding. "I think I can manage being married to you if it means finding out what Duncan is up to. Better if we manage to stop him before anything large and expensive gets destroyed." He pulled out his briefcase and withdrew a tablet; after a moment he hitched his chair sideways for Clint to see. "We might as well find out when our wedding was," he said dryly. "I don't want to miss our anniversary again."

"I don't think you're the type to miss any," Clint said, grinning. "That seems more my style." Clint watched as documents appeared -- possibly as they were being created by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s team of experts in the Human Capital Office. Clint made a note to be extra nice to them when they got back, brownies or scones or just standing around letting them make jokes about his wedding -- which apparently had had a color scheme of purple and seafoam green. Clint wondered where they'd gotten the photos of Phil in a grey tux, though, and if they'd mind if he kept copies.

They both memorized the details quickly, and Clint shuffled his new background through the stories he'd already been telling the locals. Nothing he couldn't explain away easily with the simple excuse of not wanting to come out to a bunch of strangers.

The only thing he noticed was-- "Shit, we're not wearing rings." Clint rubbed his hands, trying to figure out why neither of them would be wearing one.

"They've thought of that," Phil said, pointing at the screen. The wedding had been seven years previous, but wasn't legally binding. They'd had a ceremony in Pittsburgh, where Phil Anderson was originally from. There were photos from the wedding and Clint recognized several lower-level S.H.I.E.L.D. agents making up the crowd. Clint wondered if they'd taken pictures in the half-hour since Coulson had sent in his request, or if they'd had stock wedding photos lying around for the purpose.

Probably the latter, Clint decided. He didn't think this was the first fake wedding S.H.I.E.L.D. would have had.

But Coulson was right about the lack of rings. According to the copies of the wedding vows, they'd decided that for political reasons they wouldn't get rings until it was recognized as a legal marriage by the federal government.

Clint grinned. "Apparently you're quite the hippie," he said.

"How do you know you aren't the one who thought of it?"

"Because I'm the normal, sane one in this relationship-- ow!" Clint rubbed his arm where Phil had pinched him. "I'm also the abused spouse, too. Better watch out I don't get the sheriff to arrest you. He likes the way I make his coffee, says I'm his favorite barista."

With a bland smile, Phil just said, "If we need to question Duncan in the privacy of a shared jail cell, we'll see what we can do."

Clint just rolled his eyes.

~~~

Over the next few days, Clint showed his husband around town, introduced him to the locals, and tried not to act like they were one step away from certain doom. It was easy to slip into the appearance of a long term relationship with Phil -- they'd worked together long and closely enough to know one another's habits and preferences and it was simple to drop casual references to make it look like they'd actually lived together for the last seven years. Clint surprised himself a few times with what he knew, surprised less by just how much Phil had picked up on about him. Any discrepancies were explained by Clint's having been overseas, as well as explaining why Clint had moved to Shawsville several weeks ahead of Phil.

They explained that Clint's PTSD had finally driven him out of DC, needing a smaller, slower, and quieter lifestyle. Phil was still in the process of re-arranging his job so he could make the move to Shawsville with his husband, and was currently taking vacation to be with Clint.

The townsfolk were divided, of course, as to this new development. Many of them talked in horrified whispers and avoided making eye contact when -- if -- they came in to get their coffee. Several regulars had stopped coming in and Clint almost felt bad for the shop's owner; soon enough they'd be gone and the whole scandal would be forgotten in favor of, Clint hoped, a successful terrorist-finding operation. 

Others said nothing at all, pretending they didn't know anything of the sort, and the remaining started cooing over Clint for being married to such a nice, polite man who clearly thought the world of him. There was cooing over Phil as well, though not in quite the same terms. Phil 'accidentally' let it slip that he knew how to repair small engines. The last machine shop had closed five years before and the locals had been forced to drive over thirty miles to get to a decent repair shop.

Once Phil made noises about re-opening the shop, and demonstrated his skill on Abner Wilkin's riding mower, several of the locals decided he was all right (even if he was a little _funny._ ) 

All in all, Clint thought that had they really been Phil and Clint Anderson, they might be set for a pretty nice life. As it was, he was more than ready to wrap things up and go home, and not just because Tasha kept slipping notes into his pockets, love notes ostensively written by Phil but Clint knew Phil's handwriting and knew Phil's handwriting when being forged by Tasha, and the love notes were not-so subtle references to payback.

The real reason he wanted to ditch this job and get back to jobs where he could just sit around waiting to shoot somebody was all of the casual intimacy. Knowing tiny details about one another was no big thing. He knew Phil hated green peas and loved the smell of fresh watermelon; Phil knew Clint liked anything that had cinnamon in it and hated wearing socks to bed. But every morning Phil would brush his hand along Clint's arm and would rest his fingers on Clint's hip when he walked past, nudging Clint aside to reach the cereal bowls. There were kisses, light and gentle and on the cheek as often as on the lips and it was completely taking Clint apart.

It would have been easier, he thought, to be faking passion, with deep kisses and roaming hands and throwing each other into bed to keep up appearances. But there was nothing sexual going on at all, with no need to convince someone listening in that they were doing more than just sleeping. The apartment Clint had rented was at the top of the coffee shop and isolated from prying eyes and ears and S.H.I.E.L.D had assured them that there were no long-distance surveillance devices trained on them there. 

The day before Clint had joked about it over breakfast. He'd said it was a good thing they'd been married long enough to stop having sex at all -- and Phil had just looked at him, silent and easy and _smoldering_ that had they been truly married, Clint thought that he would have dragged Phil across the table right then and there and fucked him.

Now they were in the living room, alone and unobserved and Clint decided to take advantage of the time to take a break. He didn't need to break his cover to plop himself down on the couch and turn on the TV; he cycled through the channels twice over before settling on a cooking show. It wasn't one he recognized, but the host was introducing a diner in California as having the best bacon ranch cheeseburgers on the planet, so Clint figured it had to be good.

He got sucked in quickly, mouth watering before they'd even got as far as making the burger on camera. Clint didn't glance over as Phil sat down on the couch beside him and propped his bare feet up on the table. Phil had been wearing jeans, t shirts and sneakers for the last week, his suit hung up in the closet and not even touched since he'd arrived. It was distracting, but not any more-so than Phil was ever distracting -- in his combat suit Phil was a great deal more distracting, though Clint had never really done more than acknowledge that the man was hot when he was badass. Clint thought a lot of people were hot enough to have sex with, but no one--

Phil reached out with his foot and nudged Clint's leg. Clint looked over, raising an eyebrow.

"Are we going to have to make a trip to Burbank?" Phil asked, smiling as he nodded towards the television.

"Could we? I hear we have a wedding anniversary coming up; maybe we should take a second honeymoon."

Phil's smile gentled and Clint inwardly panicked for a moment, wondering why Phil was looking at him like Clint was...oh. Panicking. "Do you want to dial it down when we're in private?" Phil asked, sotto voce, and Clint knew it was by reflex. They had no reason to think anyone had them under surveillance; if Duncan had a long-range microphone trained on them or had bugged the apartment, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have already found it and instructed Clint and Phil to use it to their advantage.

Clint was surprised at the offer. He knew S.H.I.E.L.D.'s first rule of undercover, one that he'd learned himself in his years working cons alone. You never broke your cover, even alone, because you never really knew when you needed to be who you said you were. Case in point: pretending to be married then discovering you were standing right in front of your mark.

Clint shook his head. "I'm fine," he said casually, leaning back against the couch and trying to actually be fine. Phil rubbed his foot against Clint's leg, dropped his foot back to the table, then reached out with his elbow, nudging Clint's arm.

Clint couldn't remember being touched so often outside of Natasha's none-too-gentle touches during hand-to-hand combat. He couldn't call those caring touches, other than the fact he wasn't dead so she must like him at least a little bit. Clint suppressed a shiver and tried to focus on the TV screen where the amazing awesome-looking burger was sitting on a plate surrounded by garlic fries.

In a reasonable, but still quiet voice, Phil said, "We can say your PTSD makes you not like being touched, if that's bothering you." There was no censure in his tone, but something about the way Phil wasn't looking at him anymore made Clint feel guilty.

"I don't-- it isn't...." _It's just that it feels so good,_ Clint thought. _It feels like someone cares about me and I don't know what to do with that._

It wasn't that he thought no one cared about him; he knew Natasha did, she said as much and did as much when she brought him hot soup when he was stuck in a sniper's nest or kicked his ass in training to make him that much better for the real thing. He knew Coulson cared; it was hard to miss the genuine -- but fully platonic -- feelings they had for one another after they'd worked together for so long. 

Clint didn't know why all the touching was proving to be so difficult to handle, but he wasn't going to let it be a _thing._ He gave Coulson a rueful smile. "It's just weird," he said quietly, hoping the other man would draw his own conclusions and not read any further into it than need be.

Phil nodded, then said, "Think of that next time you decide to marry someone."

Clint just rolled his eyes. "Please. You're just lucky I picked you and not Old Man Freely."

"I think Mrs. Freely would have had something to say about that," Phil said, and turned his attention back to the TV. They watched as the burger was devoured by the show's host, then the teaser for the next burger -- a double taco mega burger -- made conversation irrelevant.

~~~

That night when Phil went to bed Clint stayed on the couch, reading. He read for an hour, then sat on the couch and continued turning pages despite not being able to focus on the words. He could feel his heart pounding, waiting for Phil to come back out and ask him if he was coming to bed.

It wasn't that he didn't want to -- it wasn't that sleeping alongside Phil was any hardship or awkward or anything other than two people who trusted each other well enough to sleep side by side. Sometimes Clint would wake up to find Phil's arm slung over him, or he'd be snuggled up behind Phil, legs intertwined. Neither of them commented on it, and mostly they simply slept and neither of them ever said anything about...anything.

Clint knew it was damned obvious that he wasn't going to bed, but Phil wasn't coming out to ask and finally Clint closed his eyes to fall asleep, book still propped open on his stomach as though completely by accident. He came awake sometime in the night, not moving and not opening his eyes. He heard Phil's footsteps coming down the hallway; the sound of the bedroom door had been what had woken him. Clint didn't move, but stayed relaxed, feigning sleep as Phil came down the short hallway and stopped at the entrance of the living room. 

Clint didn't know if Phil knew he was faking or not, but he stayed as he was, and after a moment he heard Phil turn and walk back towards the bedroom. A moment later there was a soft creak of the bed as Phil climbed in, then nothing.

Clint lay awake for a long time after, wondering if he was supposed to be brave enough to go after him.

~~~

The next morning Natasha found Jerry Duncan's cache of weapons. Clint and Phil had risen early and eaten breakfast, shuffling back and forth in the kitchen with the appearance of long ease. Phil didn't mention the couch and Clint managed to not act guilty, but he couldn't hide his relief when Natasha called to tell them to meet her ten miles south of town.

It turned out that Sheryl had known where the place was all along.

Clint and Phil pulled up in Clint's truck at the end of a long and grown-over dirt road. Natasha was standing beside an old wooden barn that was half-hidden among the trees even once they were standing in front of it. Natasha smiled at them both as she nodded towards the only incongruous thing about the ancient structure: a brand new, solid black lock on the door.

"So what's inside?" Clint asked, knowing Natasha would have already been in, locked door or not. Be just like her to re-lock it and watch as they broke in all over again.

"Guns," Natasha said. 

Clint rolled his eyes. "I thought we knew that." But Natasha was grinning, and there was something mischievous in her eyes. Clint walked up to the door and stood behind Phil who was peering down at the lock.

"Is it booby-trapped?" Coulson asked, casting a glance back at Natasha.

"No, just locked."

He gave a nod and reached into a pocket for a set of lock picks; Clint looked at Tasha. "So how did Sheryl find this place?"

Natasha gave him a delighted smile. "Turns out she and a couple of her cousins where in the area playing and they came across it. They even managed to get inside before Duncan showed up and scared them off, warned them about not telling anyone what they'd found."

Clint shook his head. "So she told you all about it?" He wasn't surprised, of course. Tasha could charm information out of the likes of Fury himself; a thirteen year old with a crush hardly stood a chance.

Natasha shrugged. "I just asked." She glanced away from him, looking over at where Coulson had popped the lock open. "Or you could do like I did and climb through the hole in the roof. There's a sensor inside the front door, probably wired to Duncan's house to let him know if he has intruders."

Coulson turned and gave her a dry look and Natasha just smiled sweetly.

"Well, since we kind of want to arrest Duncan anyhow, why don't we just walk in?" Clint suggested.

Coulson stepped aside and waved his arm towards the open door; after a moment's hesitation Clint walked over. As he was about to step through the door, Natasha said in a thoughtful tone, "Thing is, I don't think any of those are actually illegal."

Clint blinked. He stared at her, foot still upraised to step inside, and she just looked back at him like... like she was getting him back for maybe getting himself married to Coulson without her being there to watch. She batted her eyelashes at him and Clint just sighed, knowing perfectly well he was going to have to suck it up and take it.

He turned to look inside the building; there was enough light coming through broken slats in the walls and -- as Natasha had said, a gaping hole in the roof. Inside the small barn were, in fact, dozens and dozens of guns. Muskets. 

"Is that a Gatling gun?" Clint could see half of a shape in the corner, partially covered by a tarp. The table beside it was piled with what looked like rusting muskets, and in a corner beside the door was a small stack of cannonballs. Clint looked around for bobby traps -- because when Natasha said there were none what she meant was 'none so well hidden you might miss seeing them.' Anything obvious she expected Clint to spot for himself.

He didn't see anything so he stepped inside and slowly took in the contents of the barn. Natasha and Coulson followed and soon they had a basic survey of all the weaponry. There was a lot of it, but hardly any of it had been built in the 20th century. Clint shook his head. "They're all rusted; do you think they even still work?" Clint picked up a rifle and sighted it towards a knothole in the wall. "Even the ones that look like they'd still fire aren't in decent enough shape to be worth anything to a collector. Why bother with all this ancient crap?"

"Because one day the government is going to destroy itself and everything we've built, and those 'ancient' weapons will be the only thing standing between me and survival."

They turned to look at Duncan, who stood framed in the doorway of the barn. Coulson glanced at his watch and nodded. "He made pretty good time from town."

"Hey Coulson, can I keep this one?" Clint held up an old hunting crossbow.

"If it's here illegally, you can visit it in the evidence lockup," Coulson said blandly, pulling out his phone to let headquarters know they'd apparently solved the case.

Clint just pouted. "Margery always yells at me for stealing things out of evidence. Even when I wasn't the one who took it," he added, glaring at Tasha. She just smiled and patted his hand, looking utterly unrepentant.

~~~

Clint avoided Coulson as soon as they got back to headquarters, even to the point of finishing his reports in the middle of the night and sneaking them into Coulson's in-tray. He used the excuse of needing time on the range to get back in shape after weeks of inactivity, and Natasha helped in that regard by sparring with him in the gym.

She didn't say anything how obvious it was Clint was avoiding Coulson, nor did she carry messages back and forth or pester him about it, despite the fact Clint suspected she thought he was being stupid. It wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last, and until Clint was able to get a handle on just what the fuck was going on inside his head he was simply grateful he didn't have to talk about it.

Finally, though, sitting back on his bunk after showering, Natasha sprawled on the floor opposite him, he asked, "Do you remember that time you said I was being stupid?"

She stared at him in astonishment for a moment, as he'd expected, then she asked, "I'm sorry, could you be a little more specific? Are you asking do I remember every day for the past six years?"

He kicked out with his foot, barely brushing the tip of her boot. "About... Coulson. You said I was being stupid about Coulson."

Tasha tilted her head and he could tell that she was weighing her responses, judging how badly she wanted to tease him versus whether or not there was a chance Clint might actually stop being stupid about something. She bit her lower lip as she thought, a conscious move that Clint recognized as such even if he couldn't figure out what she was trying to do. Distract him? Buy time? He moved his foot out of the way in case she was getting ready to leap up and strangle him while he was staring at her teeth.

When she spoke, though, she was serious. "It depends on what you mean," she finally said.

Clint just took a deep breath. "Is Coulson--" He stopped, because he'd been _thinking_ about it and it had begun to make sense in his head, but hearing himself say it out loud -- seemed stupid.

But Tasha was watching him, patiently, and the look on her face made him feel like she maybe already knew. 

Another deep breath and Clint backtracked to the beginning of the thought process which had brought him here. "When we were acting like an old married couple, Coulson never... I mean even alone in the apartment we didn't break cover." He paused and Tasha nodded, still patiently and still not confused by anything he was saying. Clint said, "We kissed and when we slept together we sometimes cuddled, you know, but we never -- he never even asked if we should... Well. Even fake like we'd had sex."

There was a half-smile on Tasha's face as she asked, "Are you asking me if you're no longer pretty?"

Clint huffed and thought about throwing his pillow at her, but then he'd never get it back and he'd have to requisition a new one. Again. "I'm asking if... He really seemed like he...cared about me. Like we were married, I know, don't look at me like that. He's good at working undercover and if you make that joke you're thinking I swear I will stop talking to you for the rest of my life." Clint wagged a finger at her and she just laughed. Frustrated with his inability to just come right out and say what was bothering him, Clint said, "He just really did a great job of acting like he loved me but he never once tried to take advantage of-- of the situation so now I can't decide if he was really faking the whole thing or...."

Or what. Clint didn't dare look over at Natasha, afraid he would find amusement -- or pity -- on her face. He heard her shift forward and she placed a hand on his knee. He looked over, and she had a look on her face he didn't see very often. Not quite kindness, not quite sadness. All she said was, "He didn't want sex with you to be pretend."

Which, okay, wasn't exactly the conclusion Clint had been telling himself was absurd, ridiculous, and reading too much into things. Three weeks was not enough time to lose yourself in a cover identity, and Clint had had no other way to interpret all the things Coulson had done. So easily, without thought or self-consciousness, and hearing it from Natasha didn't really help much at all. But not wanting sex wasn't the same as not wanting fake sex, even if the sex was real but the reasons behind it weren't.

"He's never said," he began, and Tasha shook her head.

"He's your boss. He doesn't want to make things difficult for you. And since you are stupid and have never actually done or said anything to make him think you'd be amenable, how is he supposed to know you would have said yes?"

Clint opened his mouth, then stopped, then closed it again. Sex. Sex with Coulson. That... hadn't actually been what he'd been thinking about. Yes, that had been the linchpin of realizing there was something wrong, or right, or just something that Clint needed to do something about. But hearing Natasha say it made him realize that wasn't what he really wanted to know. He had to swallow once, then all he could manage was a whisper. "Do you think Coulson loves me?"

She rolled her eyes. "That is why I told you that you were being stupid. About a great many things, but especially about Coulson. Here's a free piece of advice, Clint: when you go talk to him about this? Call him Phil." She paused. "If you call him 'sir' in bed I don't need to actually know that."

"I think I'm going to have you killed," Clint said mildly, stifling the urge to hide his face.

She patted his knee again. "Good luck with that."

~~~

Standing outside Coulson's-- Phil's door was more awkward than anything Clint could ever remember doing. He shifted from one foot to the other, debated running away and getting a gift, bottle of wine or case of beer, or maybe just running away and not coming back. But his hand was knocking on the door before he could decide on a safer, wiser course of action and a few minutes later the door opened.

Phil looked surprised, but smiled and stepped back to let him in.

"So, uh, I--" Clint began as he walked in, stopping just a few paces past the front door and Coulson. He didn't feel he ought to make himself at home, but he'd already come this far and standing too close to Phil wasn't necessarily going to help. Alcohol would have helped so much, he told himself. Aliens attacking and summoning them back to work would have been nice, too.

"If it helps, Natasha warned me you'd be coming by," Phil said mildly. Clint looked at him in horror, and Phil gave him a smirk. "Of course she said that a couple weeks ago. I was beginning to wonder."

"I'm slow," Clint said, mouth on auto-pilot while his brain tried to catch up. "Wait, Nat told you... What did she tell you?"

The smirk faded a little, though Phil still looked amused. He also looked good, relaxed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and, Clint checked, padding around in bare feet. He stared for a moment and realised that maybe he should have figured this all out when he'd first noticed he had a thing for Phil's bare feet.

Or maybe the first time Natasha told him he was stupid.

"She said," Phil began, then when he didn't continue, Clint looked up. He was surprised to see uncertainty on Phil's face. Phil sighed. "Well, she said several things. Mostly that you might come by."

"I really liked being married to you," Clint blurted. Phil looked stunned, blinking at him and mouth gaping open. Clint clamped his mouth shut.

"I was expecting to work our way up to that," Phil said.

"Sorry? Only I'm not, really, because you just kept touching me and no one's ever really done that and I was freaking out because I thought I was just... you know, that it didn't matter who, just the touching so I sort of locked myself inside my head for awhile and tried to figure stuff out and you can make me stop babbling, please, make me stop babbling."

Clint was vaguely aware that Phil's door was still open, and he hoped that there were no nosy neighbors peeking through their curtains. He glanced out to check, spotting only one front window within the line of sight; Phil noticed him looking and jerked a little, moving to quickly close and lock the door.

When he turned back around, Phil seemed like he'd composed himself a little. "Barton, if...you're merely touch-starved then we can--"

Clint cut him off. "I thought of that already. I have actually read those books Dr. Mortensen recommends as part of our psych evaluations. I...thought of that and all I kept thinking was, if someone's going to touch me I want it to be someone who--" He choked a little, then forced the words out. "Someone who loves me. Which is you or Tasha and when it comes down to you two I'd rather be with you. But I don't know if I can tell you why."

He'd lain awake the last several nights wondering, worrying over his reasons and rationales. He'd read those books, granted only in the last few days in a desperate effort to find some answers. He still didn't even know most of the questions, but he had finally realised this one thing: whatever it was he wanted, for whatever reason he wanted it, he wanted it to be with Phil.

He didn't know if that was love, convenience, or just a lack of trusting anyone else on the planet, but it was all he had.

Phil looked like he was thinking things over and not coming to a conclusion Clint was going to like.

"I'm not here to tell you I've fallen in love with you," Clint said quickly , feeling his heart pounding. "Because I don't even know what that _is._ All I know is that those few weeks of being married to you made me happy and I felt-- safe and loved and I understand that you already know what you want and that maybe you don't want to take any chances with me. But I had to come tell you...or Tasha was going to kick my ass," he ended, a bit more honestly than he'd really meant to be.

They stood there in silence for several long minutes, and Clint was grateful for his ability to remain still and silent for hours, because the way the clock was ticking it felt like each second was a lifetime.

"So...you're saying you want to...what, exactly? Get married?" There was no inflection in Phil's voice, his expression was calm and not shut off, but still didn't tell Clint much of anything.

He shook his head. "I want you to touch me. I want to be free to touch you. I don't even know if you actually want to have sex, but I've seen you in your combat suit and I'm not ashamed to say you could fuck me over any flat surface because of it." Phil made a noise which Clint mostly ignored. He glanced down, and added, "I may have a thing for your feet, and I've never really liked people's feet before, so maybe it's a sex thing. Maybe you have amazing feet, I don't know. But whether or not you want to have sex, or say we're dating, or get married and live together for the rest of our lives...." Clint looked up, directly into Phil's eyes and didn't flinch. "I want you to touch me, and smile at me, and I want to make you laugh and I want you to burn my dinner sometimes because you really can't cook, but you'd try anyway, and...oh." Clint stopped. Phil just stood there, watching him, and Clint swallowed. "Oh."

Phil was smiling at him, now, and it was nothing at all like his smiles before. It reached all the way up to his eyes, softened his entire face -- hell, his whole body was relaxing into the smile and Clint wondered if he was meant to kiss Phil now, or if that would take away from the moment. He figured he'd try it anyway, stepping close and Phil reached for him and tugged him in the rest of the way.

The kiss wasn't at all like the quick kisses they'd exchanged pretending to be married. It wasn't fast or desperate or anything but a press of Phil's lips on his. Their bodies were touching, Clint's knee slipping in-between Phil's, and Phil's hand was on Clint's arm, gripping tight as though he thought Clint might move away. Clint let his mouth slip open and felt Phil push his tongue lightly, questing against Clint's lower lip.

Clint shuddered, and Phil did it again before pulling back. Clint blinked once, focused on Phil's face.

"Maybe I do," he said, when he found his voice again.

Phil laughed once, then came back for another kiss. When it broke, Clint slid his arms around him and hung on, cheek pressed against Phil's shoulder and feeling the tension running out of him that had been there since Shawsville.

"Do you think they'll let us keep our marriage certificate?" Clint asked. He didn't even really mind having had a purple and seafoam green wedding. He sort of minded not getting wedding presents, but then he thought about the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents' typical sense of humor and figured no, it was better this way.

"We'd have to change the names," Phil replied. "And we wouldn't get our honeymoon."

Clint laughed and pulled back a little, facing Phil. "We have an anniversary coming up in August. We can have a second honeymoon. I'm not picky."

"Should we go to Burbank and visit those burger joints?"

Clint shook his head. "You know what? I don't even care." It was maybe not entirely true; those burgers had looked fantastic. Phil just kissed him again and Clint thought he maybe could get used to this.


End file.
